Go Away
by Moonchild1212
Summary: A/U - After the war, Severus only wants to be left alone, but a certain bushy-headed Gryffindor refuses to let him be. One shot.


Author's note: It' isn't mine. I don't own it, and all credit goes to JK Rowling for her wonderful universe. Please read and review, and let me know if you spot any errors. I didn't have a Beta for this story, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

He sat alone in the dusty hovel, his lank, unwashed hair clinging to his gaunt cheeks. The grimy window drew his attention, day after day, and it was only gnawing hunger or the pressing need to relieve himself that drove him unwillingly him from the ratty, cocoon-like chair. Even the books, oh those aged, dusty tombs that had been his only comfort, faithful lovers for years, even they no longer possessed the ability to claim his attention. The swift rush of air seemed to fill the silence as he inhaled, coughing as the dust filled his raw lungs. Weeks, it had only been weeks since he had been released from Saint Mungo's, and were it not for Lucius' diligence in sending a house elf to provide food, he would have allowed himself to waste away. It was only the love of his old friend that kept him alive, well, and the girl.

He ignored the persistent knock on his door, "Go Away!" He shouted into the begrimed chamber. She ignored him, as she had every other day, and obnoxiously pushed her way through is wards, invading his privacy yet again.

"Honestly," she exclaimed, do you conjure dust the moment I leave?" She complained.

"If it isn't to your liking, Go away." He rasped, as his tender vocal chords rebelled. The healing was coming along nicely, or so she informed him. Outwardly, he showed signs of resenting her intrusion; she was constantly poking at him with her wand and tidying his home. He wished she would leave, just leave him alone to rot, but secretly, secretly his eyes followed her. Secretly, he listened intently, replaying every syllable in the lonely hours after she left.

"Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you?" She said teasingly. She had visited him daily at Saint Mungos, reading the Prophet to him, articles from Potions journals, and the texts she was studying. She attended university part time, trying to devote time to rebuilding - which meant devoting most of her free time to the man who had almost single-handedly saved the wizarding world.

There was a reason for her dogged effort to return him to the land of the living. It was two fold, and the first was that he had saved her life; the second, was the realization she had come to on the occasion in which he had saved her life. - Oh, he had saved her, and her friends, on many occasions, but in the forefront of her mind was the moment he had positioned himself between her and Bellatrix. He had dashed in still clearly suffering from Natani's bite, robes unfurling like dark clouds in a maelstrom; his wand readied, wordlessly, he had shielded them both from the dark witch's onslaught effortlessly,as if waving flies from his face. A pause, a brief pause in her attack had been all it took, and Hermione still remembered the bored look he had worn as he killed Bellatrix and scooped her from the floor at his feet. She had been caught in the side by a piercing hex; bleeding profusely, she had felt her limbs grow cold. Securing them in the Room of Requirement, he had patched her up sufficiently to keep her alive. "Stay put," he had warned her, his nose only inches from her, "I'll be back to check on you once it is finished."

Between the warmth of the room and the blood loss, she was drowsy. He had given her a blood replenishing potion, plucked it seemingly from the air, and had vanished. Unaware as to how long she had been out, she woke again when he returned, "It is finished," He murmured, "Are you alright, Miss. Granger?" He had whispered as he lifted her gingerly into his arms. She had nodded and curled her arm around his neck tentatively and gripping his shoulder. Amazingly, he never faltered. "I"m going to take you to the infirmary." She had inhaled his scent, and her animal brain had deduced what she had not been able to reason so long ago in Slughorn's classroom. Amortentia, the smell of freshly mown grass, no… not quite, the smell of pruned potion's ingredients that seemed to permeate his clothing. Parchment, fine parchment paper imbued with magical preservation spells, spearmint toothpaste not the sort purchased at Tesco - the kind made by a skilled potion master, and hair, not Ron's hair, which she had mistakenly assumed, no the smell of overactive sebaceous glands, the smell of this man.

"It's you," she had whispered, her nose buried in the crook of his neck..

"You are welcome, Miss Granger, but there is no need to thank me," He had reassured her.

"Mmm," She had mumbled drowsily, "No, but Thank you," She had sniffed him, nearly nuzzling his ear, her lips inadvertently pressing against his skin.

He hadn't made a comment or reacted to her strange overtures, and though she wished she could forget them, she hadn't, even after he placed her onto the bed in the infirmary and promptly passed out. She had yelled for Poppy and lost consciousness herself. She had continued to make a total fool of herself from the moment she woke to find him insensate, and while Ron seemed oblivious, it hadn't taken Harry long to figure out what was going on.

"You . . . you love him, don't you?" He has asked, interrupting one of the many visits she had spent reading to Severus, for he was Severus to her now.

She hadn't disassembled, laughed, or flinched as she met his eyes. Unspeaking, she nodded.

Harry had responded with a barely audible "Bloody hell," raking his hands through his unkempt locks and further mussing his hair.

Her nimble fingers had readjusted the tomb from which she read, and her clever eyes had returned to the page, summarily dismissing the topic of conversation. They had an uneasy peace about it, Harry having come to terms with Snape's true role.

She paused in her dusting, her hand stilled over the rag, now gray with grime, and looked over her shoulder at Severus. He had nodded off; his inability to remain coherent was due to the fact that he had little energy. He refused to eat enough to sustain him. Sighing, she headed to the kitchen to wash her hands; at least the little kitchen was spotless. However, her progression throughout the rest of the house was slow. She only used magic when necessary, preferring to clean manually, caring for each item and preserving it was a way for her to demonstrate her feelings toward the man who sat like some forgotten statue in the corner of his living room.

The heat of the day had begun to permeate the neat little room. Wiping her sweaty brow, Hermione wondered how she could break through to the man. Turning swiftly, she returned to the room, which seemed filled with magical motes that gleamed in the muted light that filtered through the sole window. Severus seemed gaunt, but even in this malaise his patrician features distinguished him as a man like no other. His brow, smoothed by sleep, was punctuated by two dark lines, creased between by years of torment and frustration. His hair, oh his hair; he refused to allow her to touch it. She spent the day cleaning, only making modest headway into the room and the many fixtures and knickknacks that littered the room. Some where magic, some mundane. Gazing towards the window, she admired the way the faint moonlight filtered through the window. The candles she had lit hours ago flitted fitfully, bathing the room in a soft, somber light.

Exhausted, she inhaled the heavy air, realizing that she lacked the energy or desire to apparate home. Instead, she looked over at his sleeping form and decided to just take a shower and make a pallet on the floor. Foolish? Perhaps, but she wasn't really concerned with his mock fits of outrage. She headed up stairs quickly, and she was efficient in her task, using the soaps provided in his bathroom. They were old, and a cursory sniff of the shampoo he used was enough to tell her that the stuff would not be kind to her hair. Shrugging, she used it anyway, inhaling the pungent odors of ingredients necessary to strip the excess oils from the Severus' head. She would need to bring her own items the next time she decided to clean late into the night.

Bathing accomplished, she transfigured her robe into a billowy, white nightgown and headed back to the quiet lounge. His subtle snores teased her ears as she treaded softly down the stairs. She briefly wondered if she should wake him to eat, but her skills at food preparation were legendary in a very awful sort of way. Smirking, she opened the door to the linen closet, pulled out a ratty blanket, and banished anything that might have tried to make a home within it. Spreading it on a small, clean space she had managed to clear onto the floor, she transfigured it into a thick, lush palate that beckoned to her tired muscles. It only took moments for her to fall asleep, and as soon as she began snoring lightly, Severus' eyes popped open.

Those eyes, dark pools of curiosity, flitted over her form as she tossed, revealing the youthful body that lay beneath the fabric of her gown, which had twisted tightly about her limbs. She kicked fitfully, and he felt for the poor (lucky) bastard that would take her to bed. His roving gaze cataloged her, and he reflected that she no longer looked like the Miss. Granger who had sat at the front of his classroom eagerly waving her hand and demanding praise for her adept abilities at memorization and recall. He begrudgingly admitted, when she was a child, that she had some natural talent. But she had irritated and infuriated him with her seemingly self-seeking behavior. He realized, now, it was her drive to please, and it was that which had endeared her to him as a woman. Tempered with time and trial, she no longer waited for praise but instead butted in, in her her very Granger way. She no longer sought approval but did her best to address the problems that she saw in the world around her in the spirit of the girl but very much in the fashion of a confident woman.

He recalled those one sided conversations she would have at his bedside, remarking on the behavior of her friends or the obtuseness of her college professors, when either failed to admit that they were wrong. She did not suffer fools lightly, which, again, only served to further endear the chit to him. And here she was, lolling on his floor like some vixen in tempting repose. The demure neckline of her nightgown futile against the prominently rounded flesh beneath, and the modest hem thwarted by her sleepy gamboling. The hemn had creeped up her firm thighs, presenting him with a most fetching picture. He lit the fire in the grate, to warm the room, since she had seen fit to knock off her covers. He refused to admit that the light would present him with a better view of the temptress.

He sat back in his chair, stretching his back and pulling several vials of potion from his pocket. He threw them back rapidly, pressing his lips together as he swallowed. He had been avoiding them, though Lucius had sent them daily, made courtesy of his own personal healer. Clearing his throat, he felt the immediate improvement of his throat and vocal chords. The other, a health potion, restored his body with the nutrients and vitamins he was sorely lacking.

The fire cast deep shadows over his long face, his heavy lidded eyes, and pronounced cheeks, giving him an all together gothic look; were someone to interrupt this benign scene, he had no doubt at what they might surmise. It looked positively hedonistic, with the girls limbs spread out wantonly, her wild curls trailing about like hungry terenticula, and her gown rumpled as if from a far more sordid activity than sleep. He knew that he should cover her, but he did not. Instead, his eyes followed her progress avidly through the night, relishing each moan, each pouting maneuver of her reddened lips, and the arching of her back in sleep. And if he was aroused, he made no move to assuage his desire, nor would he without the participation of the woman in question. It didn't fail to strike him that the likelihood of her being so moved by an aged, gaunt invalid was highly unlikely, but regardless of the statistical possibility, he was content to enjoy the charming picture she had benevolently bestowed upon him. It was the most alluring show he had been privy too in a long time, far more desirable than any revel he may have been forced to attend.

In the small hours of the morning, he had fallen asleep, while leaning forward to study the shadows between the cleft of her thighs. She had turned over, her bottom up, and the nightgown barely covering her plump cheeks. He would not stand, no, refused to stand, but he was not above leaning forward to admire the fact that the girl had gone to bed without any underclothes. The straining in his breeches had kept him away, but it was only so potent in the face of weariness. His eyes had closed, and the dreams that had visited him were all he could hope for and more.

Hermione woke, in a tangle of fabric, and began untangling herself from her blankets and nightclothes. Once free, she rubbed her eyes sleepily and gazed about the room, realizing that the task ahead was rather daunting. Her eyes were drawn, however, irresistibly to Severus, who seemed to lean forward in his chair, balanced uncomfortably. His slick hair swung lankly forward, hiding most of his face. Unable to resist, she drew forward slowly, trying not to wake him; she crept quietly. Once close, she reached forward, touching tentatively the dark, neglected strands. Her fingers lit gently on the ends and, unconsciously using wandless magic, she began to clean it, running her fingers through the limp strands and leaving them lush and silky in the wake of her strokes. His hair gleamed blue-black as she worked methodically, and her nails began to weave closer to his scalp, wending their way around his head. Moving behind his chair and slipped between him and the window, her fingers continued to drift in a dance all their own, even after his hair was clean. She was mesmerized, enjoying the feel of the strands as she raked her nails up the back of his scalp and slowly allowed them to drift like raven's feathers to their natural resting point. Her eyes gazed avidly at his features, taking in the sharp chin and stern, thin lips, and the vigor present, which she had not seen the day before.

Unbeknownst to her, Severus was feigning sleep, hunched forward and trying not to groan with pleasure like some lapdog wiggling under his owner's particularly delightful bellyrub. It felt good to be touched, so good to be cared for. Though he did not want to indulge in this folly, he was powerless to prevent it. Selfishly, he knew that he did not wish to, and that Miss Granger's continued intrusion was far more welcome than he let on. The evening he had saved her, she had looked upon him with a glint in her eye. It had differed from the grateful hero-worship she had heaped upon him as a child. Her body close to his, he had relished the feel of her in his arms. Treacherously, he had responded as she had buried her nose into his neck, knowing very well what the woman was getting at.

He woke 8 months later to find her at his bedside, and though his healers protested that he should remember little of his convalescence, he remembered every word, every touch during hours he spent mutely attentive to her company. Though, he had never let on that he did. Those moments made bearable the hours he had spent alone, often drifting through a fog of wretched memories and reliving years of lonely isolation. She was his Gebralter, and he felt foolish to cling what would likely prove to be the fleeting whimsy of a young woman's heart. Yet, he was powerless to instill his daily insistence that she, "Go Away," with any real vitriol.

He sprang awake, and she yelped as the door slammed open, flooding the entryway with bright morning sunlight, and Severus, seemingly frail and withered, unfolded his limbs and stood like some demi-god, his hands spread, shielding Hermione, who managed to peep around him curiously. Her hand rested on his forearm, and her chin rested against his bicep as the curly penumbra of her hair fanned about both of their shoulders.

"This has gone on enough!" the tall, brawny boy proclaimed as he bumbled his way into what seemed a very domestic scene, "You never even came home last night!" His usually pale, freckled face was livid, red like some raw scar. It clashed horribly with his ginger hair. Lips trembling, pressed together with white ire, he focused his blue eyes on the two authors of his humiliation.

"How COULD you!" He said, pointing his wand at Hermione, taking in the white of her nightgown and her bare feet, "How could you do this to me? Do you know you're picture is in the Prophet," He nodded raising his eyebrows to punctuate the ridiculousness of the situation, "Yeah, a full spread on how you tenderly nursed him to health," he emphasized this with a wave of his wand, "at Saint Mungos, and now you're shacked up with him like some sort of love slave." He tilted his head to the side belligerently, "Yeah," nodding his eyes traveled to Snape. "You hexed her didn't you or gave her some sort of potion to fall in love with you? Didn't you, you sick bastard?" His wand, shaking with rage, leveled at Snape's thin torso. His eyes roved wildly from one to the other, taking in more of Hermione dishabille as she sidled forward.

Half of her was now visible and her state of undress completely identifiable to the infuriated young man Severus noted. His eyes were drawn over his shoulder as she moved. It was, undoubtedly, purposeful; he smirked, knowing that he was more than ready to take on the young scamp that had invaded his home and should the boy choose - unwisely - to dual.

Severus, from Hermione's vantage, looked almost bored. She was trying to suppress her laughter at the absurdity of the moment and failed, shaking lightly against him. Severus, for his part, remained stoic; though, as looked over his shoulder and down at her, the mirth in his eyes was unmistakable. "Mister Weasley, welcome. Would you like some tea? Perhaps we can discuss this like rational human beings?" He said, offering the boy an opportunity to save face, " Now, lower your wand unless you would like me to lodge it into the gullet from which your lack of couth undoubtedly arises." The deep tone of his voice was like molten whisky, darker than the silky timbre Hermione remembered before he had been attacked, bitten by Nigani. They had left him for dead, so his appearance within the castle had startled them all - including the Dark Lord who had assumed his best man to be dead. He had healed himself and come to her rescue, a force to be reckoned with, but the poison had proven far more deadly than he had anticipated. Though he had managed to stem the effects, prolonging his ability to fight, and save the golden trio, it had eventually taken him down and placed him in a coma for months on end.

Ron was aware that he stood before a wizard whose power, even at his weakest point, far outstripped his own. One would have to be an idiot to miss the waves of magical energy emanating from the tall, darkly clad, lean form. Gracefully, Severus' hand gestured to the dusty settee, and Ron, side stepping Hermione's pallet, begrudgingly lowered his wand and slipped it into his pocket; sitting heavily and causing the aged couch to protest in earnest, he glaring mulishly at them both. Severus glided back into his well-worn chair, sitting erect like some king amidst the clutter and neglect of his home. It was hard not to be impressed,regardless of the circumstance, and this, Hermione reflected,as she slipped her arm behind his shoulder and rested her other hand along his bicep, was the man on whose return she had waited.

Ron's lip curled in disgust as he looked away from the both into the faintly glowing embers of the fire place, "When were you planning on telling me?" He said accusingly.

"Telling you what, Mr. Weasley?" Severus intoned snidely, "telling you that she knew you cavorted with Lavender Brown throughout the castle, whilst proclaiming that you were faithful to her? Telling you that she knew that you have spent the months since the war glorying in your status as hero and sampling the wares of any witch that would have you?" He said, his eyes having pulled the tawdry details of Ron's misdeeds from his mind as if plucking low-hanging fruit from an overladen tree. A Slytherin always armed himself - with wand and information. Ronald Weasley could no more hide the deceits of his deeds than he could any emotion that tended to flit readily across his features. He was an open book and easy pickings for a Legilimens, and he had few options to resort to in the face of this onslaught.

"You Lie!" The young man shouted, standing amid the room like some large, awkward puppy.

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. Severus looked up at her, his brow puckered with concern. Opening her eyes, she smiled at him reassuringly and brought her right hand back to rest on his arm, He patted her digits gently before returning his attention to Ron, who stood in the room breathing rapidly chest rising and falling like some overblown toad.

"Ron, you have just riled at me for what you saw in the papers. Do you think I am oblivious to what is printed in the gossip column?" She asked incredulously, "And our understanding is an old one. I told you after the war that we were through, and I have no intention of resuming anything with you now or ever. I had hoped that we could maintain our friendship. You know your mother has spoken to me about how embarrassed she is about your behavior." The young woman shook her head, her wild hair ruffling around her head like a lion's mane. Pushing it from her face gently, she wished she would have braided it before she began cleaning; she reached back down to grip Severus' hand.

"Hermione, I thought you would come to your senses. I knew you could not really serious about ending our relationship. I mean, we have known each other all of our lives; we are destined. . . ."

"ENOUGH!" Severus barked, pinning Ron with his obsidian gaze. "Miss. Granger has made her intentions known. Hermione, do you wish to entertain Mr. Weasley's romantic overture toward you?" He asked, so sure of her answer that his gaze never straying from Ron's vitriolic stair.

"No, nothing more than friendship; though, I don't see how that is possible if he continues to behave this way." Hermione rambled, and Severus' hand squeezed hers ending her discontented ramble.

"Mr. Weasley, you will cease your romantic attentions towards Miss. Granger from this point forward." He ordered as his fingers wove through Hermione's fingers. At this point, he did look up for confirmation, and he was pleased with the welcoming smile she gave him, the warm glint in her eyes, and the fetching blush that stained her cheeks. He allowed a slight curl to lift the corner of his mouth before turning his attention to the wounded pup, who had the nerve to make a noise of disgust.

"You're barking," He said, sneering at Hermione. "Don't come running to me when that greasy bat breaks your heart or treats you like rubbish." His shoulders slumped and he turned mulishly towards the front door, which gaped open like some glowing maw. The sunlight dappled the floor playfully and seemed to fade the color from the world outside, impressing on them both the cozy nature of the home in which they were ensconced.

Without a word, Severus waved his hand as Ron stepped over the threshold, summarily slamming the door behind the boy and clearing the dust and grime from the room. Hermione blinked, startled by the transformation from shabby neglect to modest comfort. The wooden shelves that lined the room seemed to glow warmly, the books beckoned with their aged charm, and the walls seemed to radiate a golden comfort rather than the stained yellow of neglect they had sported only moments before.

Hermione smirked, "Well, you could have saved me a great deal of trouble had you done that weeks ago." She said tartly.

"Watch you cheek, witch." He warned, but there was no malice in his teasing gaze as he turned to her. "Now, I'm headed to the shower. Don't even think about burning the sausages in the cold cupboard. We'll go to the pub for dinner." His voice rumbled as he stood. He headed toward the stairs confidently.

Hermione smirked and drew her hands back to gather her hair before beginning to plait it. She stopped short as Severus back at her and scowled, his dark brows drawing down mutinously, and again his eyes read more humor than irritation, "And leave your hair alone," He admonished, "please," he followed quickly, his expression turning to something more akin to a request, and his eyes smoldering gently as she pulled her hands from her hair and fanned the locks about her face, "It suits you, Lioness," He murmured.

Hermione felt her throat constrict and her heart drop into the mass of fluttering butterflies that were nesting in her stomach. The ability to form coherent thoughts having left her, and the unwillingness of her tongue to untie itself left her with only the ability to nod her acquiescence as headed upstairs to ready himself for the unruly future that refused to go away and leave him in peace. In a moment of bravery that would have made any Gryffindor proud, she followed him half way up the stairs, gripped his wrist, and waited until he turned to her to offer her lips. His hand slid across her cheek lightly, grazing the graceful curve of her neck as his lips pressed to hers gently.

"Don't be long," She whispered huskily.

"Don't go away . . . I'll only be a moment." He assured her.

Severus reflected, as his strident steps echoed in the narrow stairwell, that he couldn't be happier to have encountered a witch with such a prominent stubborn streak.


End file.
